His relationship with his dad was like the marshy beaver ponds beside the mountain highways—stagnant and smelly, covered with a brown collection of decayed plant material, never showing the bottom—at least not until someone stepped in them. Then the ooze parted to reveal a roiling of mud and rottenness. His dad’s sudden death was that footstep.
Did he love his dad? He didn’t know. Did he even respect his dad and what he stood for? No. He never wanted to copy him or be like him. Several times during the last two years while Pat was at Boulder studying astrophysics, his dad had asked him to go into business with him in construction. He declined, knowing he would be on the short end of the employee pay account.
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